The Intense Stuff

There is nothing romantic about the process behind me fining sexual partners. It’s about as sexy as that last sentence.

It’s calculated, it’s a little cold and to-the-point. I imagine it’s a bit confusing for the perspective candidates who really just sent me some nudes and thought we we’re gonna smash on contact.

But surprise. I have fucking self-restraint.

I’m also very clear about what I want upfront, that’s because at my tender age, I think I’ve experienced too much and I know a little bit of clarity goes a long way when it comes to men, and definitely gay men, but probably men in general.

“I like to bottom.” Explained one guy who I don’t think was being honest about his age.

He didn’t know I already eliminated him as a possibility because if you can’t be honest about your age, I don’t know if you’ll be honest about other important things, like…I don’t know….diseases. I also eliminated him because at his age (and I’m not giving him a day younger than 35, which to me, is fantastic, but you had to go and lie about stupid shit) he should know so much more about his sexual taste than him being a top or bottom. If I wanted to be stuck with that, I’d stay dating 18-year-olds. I swear until you’re about 24 or 25 you identify by how you enjoy your sexual experience. You don’t top or bottom, you ARE a top or bottom. You navigate the world by topness or bottomness. It’s as important as your race and gender. You’re pretty much intersectional.

“Well….I’m a bottom.” You might tell someone when you’ve only really had sex twice and there’s no real way to tell if that’s the team you’ll be joining for the rest of your life. You also won’t tell me how you like to bottom – those are important details. Are you an aggressive bottom? Do you prefer being dominated? Have you had a lot of experience? Are you new to sex in general, and you’re looking to learn something? Details, please, details.

If you can’t give me details, I’ll imagine you aren’t particularly self-aware, if you aren’t self-aware, please don’t have sex with me. Keep having sex with you, and other people living their lives unaware.

“I like big cocks.” You’ll say without knowing that as a black man, the word cock makes me a little uncomfortable. Also I won’t have any idea what you’re talking about for a couple seconds if you talk about “rimming”; we have a whole other word for that where I’m from. And yeah, let’s talk about it, If you use the word cock, and you tell me you like them big, I know that you probably only like black men for their penises.

I won’t dock you any points for this if you can just be honest about that. You work a white-collar job, you’re married to a woman who doesn’t like to have sex with you anymore. All you have in your life is money and you feel empty. You use to be exciting and now your favorite color is beige. I thoroughly believe sex is a beautiful time to confront the ugliest parts of ourselves, so say it. Say you like to have sex with black men because in real life, you pretend to not like us, fear us even, when in actuality, all you want is to be destroyed by the big black cock that you’re mesmerized by.

Yes. I freak men the hell out with my preliminary questions prior to us agreeing to be friends with benefits and in the spirit of honesty, I’m not really looking for any more friends. I have enough, some days, I have too many. I’m just looking for benefits.

I ask the probing questions before I agree to probe anything. If my process is too slow-paced for you, feel free to go anywhere else. I don’t skip the process. That’s where the magic happens. That’s where we admit some of the things we’ve ignored about ourselves during the daylight. It’s where we embrace some of the things we put on hold at our jobs.

The best sex I’ve ever had was with a man who had lost his mother during his teen years and never met his father. I learned this after asking him about a tattoo on his arm. He told me about how difficult it was to navigate the world with nobody. He told me about how difficult it is to live when you’ve been dealt an unfair hand and still have to press forward. That shit is frustrating, it’s wearing. Our sex was phenomenal. I could feel the mix between his intensity, anger, his wanting to be close to someone. Sex lets us bring all that into the room

Pressing himself into me he whispered into my ear, don’t worry, I’ve got you and I believed every word, not even because I’m dumb, but because that come from someplace.

Maybe words he wanted to hear, maybe it was words he missed hearing, I don’t know, but something there felt real. There ain’t a lot of real no more.

He hit me up every day the month after. I ignored the call. He hit me up over the summer. Sometimes from new numbers, hoping to get in contact with me.

I was wrong. I know. I was also young and that connection was too intense. I was not ready for anything that real.

After accidentally answering once, he confessed, “I have never had anything like that with anyone.”

I know I wasn’t anything exceptional. I was way too young to have any sexual expertise, but what we had wasn’t about a technique or who topped or bottomed, that shit was about letting ourselves be honest about who we were and what we wanted. He was some DL guy living on a side of town that would have horrified my parents, and I was freshly from the west coast and going to school in small town North Carolina. We didn’t want to be boyfriends or start a relationship. We just wanted to be ourselves, and there’s something wild that happens when we’re allowed to be.

It’s intense, it’s other-worldly, it’s frightening.

So now I interview potential sexual partners. I ask questions. I don’t give a fuck what you do for a living. I’m not going to listen to you brag about what you drive. Don’t fake your age.

And dear god, do not go on about how you’re a top or a bottom.

I have important questions and the sooner you answer, the sooner we can get to the good stuff.

Writing about him, some stuff really crept up. That was an entire fucking moment. I don’t actually know if I made the right decision, and way too frequently, I catch myself having to ask me for forgiveness, still.

The Young Plum

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